


Supposition Theory

by goldened



Series: Demon Hunter Mob [1]
Category: Ao no Exorcist | Blue Exorcist, モブサイコ100 | Mob Psycho 100
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Other, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:20:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22987795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldened/pseuds/goldened
Summary: The challenges of personal growth continue beyond Salt Middle’s own fountain of youth; learning is forever, and Seasoning High comes marching with its own demands in fulfilling the mundane and dealing with the extraordinary.In the meantime, newly christened High Schoolers Kageyama Shigeo and Hanazawa Teruki turn their exorcism specialty into a business of helping the neighborhood. Third-year Middle Schoolers Suzuki Shou and Kageyama Ritsu try to keep a balance between the all-consuming ambition and precarious investigations. The Spirits and Such Company are on their usual modus operandi, starting to catch wind of a change in the psychic industry.The world as it stands is in a state of constant flux, and outside forces conspire between themselves for their own nefarious plans. Humanity, the wretched beast, dwells in the sources of their own peril; and these eyes that keep closed cannot forever remain in ignorance.
Relationships: Dimple & Kurata Tome (Mob Psycho 100), Dimple & Reigen Arataka, Dimple & Serizawa Katsuya, Hanazawa Teruki & Kageyama "Mob" Shigeo, Kageyama "Mob" Shigeo & Reigen Arataka, Kageyama Ritsu & Kageyama "Mob" Shigeo, Kageyama Ritsu & Suzuki Shou, Kurata Tome & Reigen Arataka, Kurata Tome & Serizawa Katsuya, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Reigen Arataka & Serizawa Katsuya
Series: Demon Hunter Mob [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781701
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. These Damn Demented Delusions

**Author's Note:**

> Post-MP100 & Reigen spin-off! High School AU for our favourite esper kids, with a healthy dose of Blue Exorcist. (Canon-divergent Post chapter 113, but no knowledge of canon necessary.)

The exciting fanfare of middle school has come to an end. So starts a new beginning where the players of old hold a new lease on life. While Mob finds himself nostalgic of the past in the best way possible, there is something exciting about the prospect of a new beginning that captures his attention. He feels better prepared for school with friends and allies in the big expanse of the city and beyond, reaping the company of everyone who has helped him along the way. 

With quiet satisfaction of achievement well-attained, Mob’s aura curls into a sense of earned pride and warms into singular joy. Each step he takes is solid on the wooden foundations, supported by hard-built stamina and a tiny inkling of nervousness. It’s a natural reaction, he reassures himself. Mob continues forward and stops in front of a door. The wood is old and dented, years of previous generations marked like a badge of ancient pride.

Here is where Kageyama Shigeo stands, and here is where he takes a deep breath to still himself. Back-straight and eyes forward, holding prayer with a quiet grip on the sliding-door, he draws it open to a simple classroom.

His presence is the herald of early arrival. The room is barely populated and only by the most hardworking students in both extremes: one is poring over his phone with great concentration and another does the same, with her attention on the paperback textbooks. He recognizes neither of them, but he admits to himself that he is a little discouraged when neither of them turns around or acknowledges his existence in any way. That’s okay, says his inner optimism. They could become his friends with enough time and energy. If not so, at least they can acknowledge each other as acquaintances. Shishou says confidence is the key to success, and that resolves him to keep his posture taut and shoulders steady as he takes a place for himself. 

He gravitates to an empty seat near the window, so Mob gets a good vantage view of the school complex. It has everything that all standard high schools need: a sprawling yellow field with occasional foliage and an old if persevering gym. The buildings are covered in a fresh coat of paint for the new semester, which does nothing to erase the years of wear and tear. It’s the same format as Salt Middle, on a bigger scale. Which is to be expected, because Seasoning High accommodates a lot of students and gives elective choices. Mob finds that he likes it well enough. 

The field is filled with students pouring in from the front gates. They are tiny specks of uniform-shaped figures in the massive yellow of the sports field, moving in the masses of compulsory education. All these are pictures of a typical day, oddly hypnotizing to the bystander. Despite the clothes being identical, Mob can spot differences of one another, in this sea of protagonists ready to begin their lives. Mob soon loses himself in empathetic monotony, playing third party to this shared morning ritual. 

Time passes, and so do the people. Mob is not keeping track of the minutes, but he wakes from passivity at the rear end of the hour. 

“Kageyama-kun!” Says a voice, boyish and familiar. He blinks into reality and stares into the face of Hanazawa Teruki. There is a hand on his shoulder, where two different auras meld together into one shared color. 

“Hanazawa-kun,” Mob replies, polite and quiet in the crowded chatter of the classroom. The room is more lively now, words crashing into his ears like waves against the rocks. One stands out the most to him, coated in sunlight yellow. “It’s nice to see you here.” He is someone that floats buoyantly, a life raft in this sea of strangers. 

“Great to see you as well,” Hanazawa-kun is jovial up close, and always overwhelming. This trait is constant in the chaos his presence invites. “I didn’t expect we’d end up in the same class.” He’s cheerful today, and Mob follows that crescendo of emotion with curiosity. “What a stroke of luck.” 

Hanazawa leans by the desk, and to the outside world he is a close friend greeting another. The bag he holds is carelessly thrown to the seat next to Mob. He is glad for this unasked companionship, and to Hanazawa-kun’s grin he mirrors, sharing equality in mutual friendship. 

“Yeah,” Mob says, “I haven’t seen anyone I know.” 

“Same,” Hanazawa-kun dismisses the unfamiliar with his presence, electric yellow standing out from the sea of uneventful browns. “We espers have to stay together to survive, ne?” 

“Of course,” Mob’s empathy blooms into relief. “How have you been?” He asks, tossing a question at Hanazawa-kun, one that was marinating ever since he caught sight of his friend. “I didn’t know you were going to stay at Seasoning City for high school.” 

“Eh, I decided to stay.” He says, blonde and blue warring against the wooden chair. Hanazawa slouches with a bright smile, and admits, “I don’t really have a big idea on careers yet. And I wanted to stick around! You’re just a bonus.” A wink is thrown to him, fond and understanding. And Mob does understand. He understands very well. 

“Me too,” he murmurs, keeping a foreboding stare at the bag filled with core class textbooks. “I think four years is enough time to find out what to do for the future.” At least, he hopes so. 

The clock ticks on, undeterred. “I guess.” As the time hand goes up, the trickle of students slows down. It’s almost eight o’clock, and Mob’s awareness senses the gearing tension in the air, feels the students’ weariness against the grains of passing free time. Disappointment is electric in the air, and it is a loud static to the two espers in the room. 

“Geez.” Hanazawa raises an eyebrow at the building mood. “Guess it’s time for class.” His phone buzzes on the desk, abandoned and ignored, and instead the owner’s attention is paid to the brand new stack of mandatory education. Mob checks the timetable, which he passes onto Hanazawa-kun. 

“Math right after homeroom! That _sucks_.” Two teenagers mourn the sacrifice of the possibility of a good day, and two equally struggle with the massive textbook they both carry. It lands on each desk with an intimidating weight, the cover being green and grave. Mob is a lesser student against the onslaught of numerical promise; he peels his forlorn eyes off from the incredible text with great struggle. 

The clock strikes eight. He pushes the classroom dread aside for just a moment, genuinity trickling out of his pores. “It’s great to have you here, Hanazawa-kun.” Mob whispers to the life raft on this deep blue sea. 

A silence is kept for a short while. There’s something that startles in Hanazawa-kun, and he takes a second to recover with usual charm and gossamer grace. “Very nice to be here, Kageyama-kun!” Hanazawa’s expression unfolding to a happiness blooming in fertile soil. Mob feels blinded by the strength of brilliance, holding gaze hand in hand until the tension breaks; the bell rings its toll to the chagrin of all students. The moment disappitates into the air, and all that is left is the threat of lessons that starts with equal parts brimming enthusiasm and good-natured foreboding. 

As school begins to rouse from its summer slumber, Mob sneaks a glance at Hanazawa, whose face traces a subdued grin. The morning sun shines a prismatic on his math textbook and the shadow hides the sounds of his phone continuously vibrating in his pocket. 

* * *

They sit together at lunch. Sitting is relative, per se, because the cafeteria is full of sweat-packed meatbags pushing and bumping into each other for a glimpse of air conditioning. Kageyama-kun suggests going outside. Teruki takes that suggestion with an enthusiastic please and indeed. 

So lunch takes place outside. Neither of them dare brave the cloying glare of the murderous sun, and so choose to take the generous shade of the sparse few trees in this school. They unpack their meal - one homemade one for Kageyama-kun and a convenience store bento for himself. He doesn’t bother microwaving it, because global warming does it for free. 

They are equally silent when they eat, uninterrupted except for the chatter of suburban nature. In this comfortable muteness, there is only Teruki and Kageyama-kun going through the motions. It’s the usual slice of the day, fulfilling basic nutritional needs. There are no layers in this interaction, just actions that repeat with mindless rewind. 

Only in mandatory routine can Teruki wind down, sinking into Kageyama-kun’s flatlands from the tethering edge he toes. A familiar face does wonders to bolster the stress that has been pooling at the base of his stomach, fuelling the fear of regret from hasty decision making. He’s not worried, of course, because Teru doesn’t make choices that he regrets. With Kageyama-kun by his side too, that wavering pride of his resolves into a certainty, because being here, right now, is the best decision he’s made in a long time.

Kageyama-kun’s presence is a presence that he enjoys. The gentle waves of power, the peeled back layer of friendliness where once there was none - it’s a rare, beautiful thing that Teru treasures with all his heart, layered with something stating belonging. 

And the phone buzzes. It’s inconvenient against his pant leg, cloying and insistent that he gives attention. It demands his cooperation with the intent of control, grabbing his mind by the neck and pulling him to the precipice. Kageyama-kun doesn’t notice, because he lives in a different world of flip phones and mother-made bentos that fit into the grooves of his palm. Whence Teruki’s newest top of the line model despises his stubbornness and shakes him apart, shaking the calm off him and dropping his industrial meal on the ground. 

“Oops,” Teruki says, and he isn’t bothered by mishaps. He also doesn’t bother checking his phone. Inevitability has not yet knocked on his door, so he brushes the remnants of the meal into a plastic container, and sets it beside him. 

“You can have some of mine.” Kageyama-kun offers his hearty lunch, setting his bento between the two of them. “I don’t mind.” 

“It’s okay,” Disposable chopsticks dangling uselessly from Teru’s hand, now homeless without a place to belong. Kageyama-kun’s face takes on a stubborn look, and the bento is placed into the open palm of his hand. 

Ah. “Thank you.” Teruki says, pliant wood surrendering to his friend, the force of nature. 

And the phone buzzes too, again, and so forth. “Are you going to take that?” Kageyama-kun asks, and it chases Teruki out of halfwayville and into the embrace of the present.

“Wha?” The word tumbles out gracelessly and onto the air between the two of them.

Kageyama-kun clears it with a pointed finger and a clarification of, “Your phone.” 

“Oh.” His dumb mouth blurts out. “Don’t worry about it, Kageyama-kun.” His chopsticks balance an octopus-shaped sausage, and it pops into his mouth with nothing but natural grace. “They’re just telemarketers.” 

“Ah.” Kageyama-kun nods as if in agreement, or maybe that is how he conveys annoyance at those pesky salespeople. “You should change your number.” 

“Maybe I should,” Teruki says, and awkwardly takes another sausage from the meager pile. Kageyama-kun doesn’t seem to mind, so it is with borrowed confidence that he picks up some rice too. 

“Mhm,” Kageyama-kun concludes, and moves onto the next curiosity that pops into his mind. “How was your summer holiday?” 

The proffered conversation is unrelated. Kageyama-kun is the type that revels at that, his perspective and questions clashing against the unspoken rules of the world. He is confidence personified, and a master in control. Teruki is sort of shocked out of his quiet assessment and speaks up, paltry in the shadow of Kageyama-kun’s finesse, and he only answers with joviality to rival the light to make up for in enthusiasm what he lacks in weight. 

“It was alright!” He grabs his enthusiasm and yanks it up, setting his chopsticks aside. “We went to Tokyo.” He brings up in between the space, appreciating the capital in the perspective of people that call the small, unassuming Seasoning City their hometown. “The city is really big, and by the way, I’m not kidding, the subway is _jam-packed_ with people!” Kageyama-kun’s eyes go wide at that proclamation, rapt with attention. “Their department stores are gigantic, and the fashion is fantastic!” One highlight of his stay, because the rest of it was unbearable. 

“Did you visit the Tokyo Tower?” Kageyama-kun asks with charm and great poise, befitting of someone with immense humbleness and great power. Teruki makes a grand gesture of nodding, because the best is what his good friend deserves. He also does so to soften the blow of his harsh truth. “Yes. Unfortunately, it’s not as big as the pictures make it out to be.” And also not fun. Teruki was bored out of his mind in there, and regrets spending the 900 yen entrance fee.

Kageyama-kun’s face remains the same, but he droops like a wilted flower, for the lack of a better word. His expressions are more open than they were when he and Teruki first met, but they are still hard to decipher. “That’s a shame,” Kageyama-kun murmurs, mood swung down because of first-hand review. “The guide books made it sound very cool.” 

“I guess we can’t always believe everything we read,” Teruki says. It’s a shame, he didn’t want to be the one that disappointed Kageyama today. “Was it Lonely Planet? They take great pictures.” 

“I don’t know.” Kageyama-kun shakes his head, after an attempt at trying to remember. He changes the conversation once more. It’s a whiplash to catch up. “Did you go anywhere else?” 

“Well…” Teruki considers his catalogue of half-remembered tourist traps. They are all remarkably easy to forget, and unworthy of talking about. He wonders why the hell he decided to go there if it didn’t peak his interest, and remembers that the majority of his stay in Tokyo was shitty. 

“There’s this place,” Teruki begins, hands preoccupied by chopsticks, “It’s pretty famous for having weird buildings.” 

“Buildings are cool,” Says Kageyama. 

“Like...they are stacked on top of each other. It’s really a sight to see.” He isn’t doing the place justice, because he doesn’t even know what it’s called. There was something about crosses and Catholic faith, which is the extent of what he remembers. 

He has pictures of it on his phone. Teruki grabs it first without thinking, and he rides through the next notification, the cheery emoticon of a new message alert staring back in one square-shaped reflection. Right. He slides the alert with a flick of the finger, and then presses the gallery icon. 

Kageyama-kun leans in his direction, a small screen shared between the two of them. They look through his myriad of selfies, of the pictures taken in various places of Seasoning City, until they slide into the timestamp territory of the summer months. 

He finds it between the wacky selfie that he got 47 likes in Instamob, and the photo of a peculiarly shaped rock. The picture is of scenery, so there are only bystanders in this shot. Instead, the main star is the mountain of buildings stacked on top of each other, balanced in structural integrity and dare he say it, an asymmetric perfection. 

“Wow.” Kageyama says, his face shining bright with the expression Teruki recognizes so well: awe. “That looks like a lot of effort.” 

“Apparently the name is True Cross Campus Town.” He replies, going through the archives and finding more photos. “They have a school there. Really famous place, where important people and celebrities send their kids.” 

Kageyama-kun appears lost in thought. “Oh. That’s where Ritsu wants to go for high school.” 

“Otouto-kun?” Teruki’s words swell in incredulous lilt, and he forcibly crushes his cadence down. No need for that negativity, Teru-kun. Then the phone buzzes, and his mood swings downwards. He shifts it to silent mode. 

“It’s a very difficult school to get into, and the tuition is very expensive.” They don’t hand out scholarships lightly as well, because it is reserved for the cream of the crop. He searched it up, out of half-curiosity and half-boredom once. They boasted that they offer only the best for the “chosen” in society. If read in a certain tone, the promotions are kind of mean spirited. The website design looked very cool though, so Teruki took a lot of inspiration in their color scheme. 

“I’m sure he’ll get in. He’s very smart.” Kageyama-kun praises his little brother, voice tinged with the unconditional love of the older sibling. Teruki pursues his lips, peering into the glass window of familial affection. He also doesn’t know Otouto-kun very well, so he will defer to his good friend’s expertise and rose-tinted glasses. 

“Mmh. Tell Otouto-kun that I wish him the best.” It’s time to clean up, and time to move on. The bell will ring soon. Teruki stands up, stretching his tired limbs against the blistering atmosphere. He bends down, picks up his half-eaten, now ruined bento and trudges over to the trash bin. He doesn’t dwell on its rusted surface and the repugnant smell of ancient rot that coalescence around the canister, but he does mourn for the waste of what could have been a decent lunch. 

He drops the plastic into the hole, which is pitch-black despite facing the sun. The trash inside must have rotted the colors. Can’t the administration afford a measly trash can? This is pathetic. 

By the time Teruki is done, Kageyama is already finished with his cleaning up. Just in time too, because the bell is ringing, and there isn’t much else to think when the both of them start running, hoping to outrun the teacher. 

* * *

Ritsu is studying. Yes, Ritsu _should_ be studying. He has no reason not to, because the fever he had this morning was a false alarm. He feels fine, and whatever illness he supposedly has is cooperating with the need to keep up with school.

Don’t let any asshole tell otherwise. Especially one Shou Suzuki, the humanoid leech he unfortunately calls a friend. Suzuki-san is a great actor too, one of his many talents, and he is currently playing the role of the insufferable bum to the invisible applause of an enraptured crowd. Or maybe it’s just Ritsu, the one and only unwilling participant in this Act of Two. As Shou’s prior career of fatherly empire-destroying plans suggests, when he commits to a single _anything_ , he commits hard. Without care for whatever peace he destroys along the way. Subtlety isn’t a word in Shou Suzuki’s dictionary, and his room is testament to that fact. His neat rows and clean shelves are putty under the manipulations of his unwanted house guest, now all skewed as the human tornado continues to bum it out in his room. 

Ritsu would have thrown the guy out, really, friend or not - and he would have if only his mother wasn’t home that day. She would be the first to scold him that it’s rude to fling guests out with psychic hatred, no matter how much of a distraction he’s being. Mom would be _disappointed_. He doesn’t want to ruin her day. 

And she likes Shou too. He’s a real manipulative fuck, because the guise he showed up with didn’t give the impression of the guy that set your house on fire that one time. 

He came here as Ritsu’s best, here to take care of his poor, sick friend. Shou even fucking came with popular textbooks, complicated Math workbooks and thick English dictionaries. Suffice to say, even Ritsu had been fooled by that before the door closed and the pyromaniac showed his true colors. 

Shou turns on a handheld radio (which he probably pulled out of his ass), and it starts playing at full volume. The radio station’s shitty musical decisions join the torture stampede. It’s awful, but because Shou is a contrarian, he would be the type to enjoy trashy, out of date pop music.

The music is really loud. Mom isn’t climbing up the stairs, nor is she demanding him to turn the volume down. It leads to one conclusion, that this asshole completely bubbled this room too, so that his disturbance remains undisturbed. 

But Ritsu wouldn’t know, because he doesn’t care. He’s busy studying. He’s doing what good students without fevers do, and that is cramming compulsory, useless information into his brain such as how this math problem can be solved in ten easy steps! 

“Man, wonder what’s on Mobflix today! Hey Ritsu, you like horror shows? I think I found a good one for ya.” 

It’s the vindictiveness that wins out. Ritsu is graced with the patience of a minor god, who now, at his wit’s end, sits up with slick professionalism, body momentum spinning the chair around and gracing attention to this poor, starved, _annoying_ animal. 

“I found a good one for you too.” His voice is calm, his gestures pacifying. All a disguise, as psychic energy flows around him, dark against the brightly themed bedroom. 

Disarrayed objects float upwards, swirling with kinetic momentum. Ritsu surrounds himself with the relics of his childhood, face smiling and eyes ominous. It’s only right to return the favor. 

He holds his hand out, against the prone figure on his expensive futon. Shou is the enemy general, and all under his command are hereby to attack at the signal.

His palm clenches into a fist, and all of his books, his things, old toys and clothes converges into weaponry, under Ritsu’s command, his anger coalescing objects into hostile needlepoint.

The might of a psychic bubble is not to be scoffed at. All offensive weaponry barely makes a dent on Suzuki’s golden shield, and Ritsu’s soldiers become lives wasted on the battlefield. 

Suzuki smirks up at him in the fakest look of innocent victimhood. “That was mean, Ritsu!” he whines in that disgusting tone of his. Saccharine sweet, with the taste of victory under a traitorous tongue. Shou heightens his voice, words reverberating into a nasally tone that Ritsu absolutely loathes. “I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!” 

He grins and that drops the facade of innocence. He holds his hands out, palms facing the heavens, and that irritating aura flares up, flinging all his things into their acute places of disarray. 

“Fuck off Suzuki,” he growls in the pit of misery, boiling frustrations peaking into dismay. With a sigh of frustration, he bends down to pick up his textbook. 

“Right, and you’re spilling over like a fucking amateur. Wouldn’t be such a prick if you’d learn to relax, ya get me?” Says Mr. I-don’t-have-a-care-in-the-world-because-my-mom’s-filthy-rich.

“Unlike you, I actually care about my future,” Ritsu retorts, and swerves back to his thankfully undisturbed desk. He turns his bent textbook on to the next unit. Always keep ahead in math, because that subject can always legally trick you into meeting face to curveball. 

Pencil meets immaculate paper. “You wouldn’t understand.” Numbers fly off the granite, calculated from the mind within. Money is exchanged in the fictitious hands of these workbook-dwellers, only accomplished because of Ritsu adding the correct formula at the correct time. 

“Try me.” Shou sits up from his throne of lethargy and finally turns the damn radio off. “You’ve been a prickly pear lately, Ritsu-chan. And I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t help ya lighten up!” 

“Mmh.” Eyes glance at problems as pencil metes answers. “Well for one, I’m aiming for True Cross Academy.” 

“Already sounds pretentious as fuck.” Shou says. “I completely expect someone like you to go for that sort of elitist crap.” 

“You know me too well.” Ritsu calculates years in seconds, and the vague outline of probability gives algebra leeway to everything definitive and numerical.

“Sure, asshole. Why not stay here with your bro though? There’s plenty of good schools in Seasoning, and that’s what you’re into.” Shou asks, riding on a cadence of curiosity, which means come hell or high water, he won’t let this go.

“They offer scholarships.” The pencil leaves a graphite sinkhole, tip snapping with the pressure of Ritsu’s certainty. “Full-ride with room and meals.” 

“Huh.” Shou’s excitement deflates like a balloon, his exuberant helium sucked out by the crushing weight of reality. “That’s a sweet deal.”

“It is,” Ritsu agrees. He snaps another lead tip, and sighs a frustrating grimace. He doesn’t bother with sharpening his ruined two, reaching for a drawer to get a new set instead. 

He also finds a brochure he got from the Academy. He only has the one mailed courtesy of the school itself, but he offers a plight of sympathy and holds it out to Shou, right under his pointy westerner nose. “Here’s more info, if you’re interested.” 

Shou grabs it immediately, deft fingers on glossy paper. He is something focused in the middle of his ruined room, flicking through the pages in intense curiosity. 

“This looks like a gothic cathedral,” Shou comments, the room is silent except for twin breathing and paper-scratching. “Edgy much?” 

Ritsu remains silent. Lets the friend digest the information at full volume, to absorb the nutrition elite education at his own pace. 

There are no more questions after that initial comment. The room finally resembles a constructive study environment, and Ritsu loses his attention to the ever-so-demanding world of numericals. 

That’s the excuse he uses when Ritsu drags himself out of the deep waters. “Shou?” He throws a lifeline at the silence, tentative and ready to tug at the sign of life. The name fades from the echoes of the room, soon and silence hangs thin in the atmosphere. Tension layers the atmosphere, weighing the line heavy with something unspoken. 

“Dude?” Ritsu turns around, wheels skidding against wooden flooring. “Are you alive?” Shou is glassy-eyed, blue unfocused on the black of the pamphlet.

Did he catch Ritsu’s cold? Ritsu stands up, abandoning ship, and tries to shake his friend awake. “You’re freaking me out.” 

“Oh shit,” says the Shou the halfway corpse, ice-cold pupils melting back into lukewarm. “I’m alright. Kinda spazzed out for a sec.” He blinks rapidly, folding the paper into squares. Shou sits up from the futon and stuffs the brochure into his pocket. “Mind if I keep this,” he declares, barely phrased as a question by polite necessity.

“Sure? Just give it back when you’re done.” There is an unsettling sense on Ritsu’s skin, prickling into foreboding. He shakes it away. “What do you need it for?” 

“Just gotta check something out! It’s your dream school, and what kinda best friend am I if I don’t check safety regulations!” Hands at the heavens, the mess in Ritsu’s room floats up on Shou’s energy, marching back into their original places. 

“Anyway, it’s getting late, so I gotta go home. Seeya Ritsu.” Ritsu waves goodbye. His room is immaculate. The futon is folded neatly, tingling with the last of casual telekinesis. 

Shou closes the bedroom door. Everything is immaculate, and nothing is out of sight. Ritsu is sitting alone, with all the quiet a humble home offers. 

“What’s with him?” he mutters. Ritsu feels electrified, swinging to the whims of a deja vu hooking tentatively into his skin. There was something in Shou’s eyes, something that reminded Ritsu of foreboding. 

The glint in his eyes...

Or something along those lines. Ritsu isn’t inclined to find out what set him off today, because he will find out sooner or later, courtesy of being Shou’s best friend. 

Right now? There is no use bemoaning the habits of a secretive asshole when he’s got an entrance exam to worry about.

* * *

School ends without much fanfare. Mob walks back home with a companion in tow, one that is very kind to accompany him into suburbia. 

Their conversation is a game of back and forths, topics swinging from the classes to the classmates, roaming around their private lives in a worded tango. They get along well, Hanazawa-kun and Mob. It spells good too, for the routine that will be cycled over and over again in a repeat loop. Friendship is a boat they ride on, new and sometimes awkward. 

But that’s the good part. It gives Mob an excuse to hang out with Hanazawa-kun. To get to know him better. So he suggests making weekend plans. They make weekend plans, or they try to. Neither of them settle on anything at all, stuck between a debate about going to the arcade or going for movie night.

It’s fun. It’s a reward, spending the time lost to cram school in the here and now. 

He’s too engrossed in the conversation, so he almost misses it. The flicker of black, the thing Mob sees in the corner of his eye. 

He decides to observe this unassuming suburban house. Everything about it looks like the quintessential family home, but there is something in Mob’s radar that pings it as something _off_. The hairs on his neck stand on their own, trembling as an aura of something other clogs his pores. 

“Can you feel it?” Mob asks Hanazawa-kun, who is no longer talking about the latest cinematic masterpieces - his words, not Mob’s. 

Hanazawa-kun’s brow furrows, and confusion drifts into the place of amiability. “Feel what?” 

What indeed. The foreboding in the air spikes up, tension holding the air hostage. “I don’t know.” There are many unexplainable things in the world, but Mob never thought that he would ever encounter one before. 

“Hm.” He can’t explain what it is, because there is no explanation for it. Whatever it may be, it isn’t a solid thing; it is the tightening of the chest, the acrid taste of his words, and the rigidness of his limbs. 

“I think it’s coming from there.” Mob tugs on himself, and his finger points at the window, second story and sky-adjacent.

“Anything dangerous?” Hanazawa-kun is the solid figure by his side, in both words and in person. He is tense on the ground, battle-ready for an enemy neither can see. 

Mob finds that admirable, and feels the weight in his chest lighten. With Hanazawa-kun by his side, there is no fear of danger. “I don’t know.” 

Mob reaches out, hand facing to the heavens, in an inimitable grasp between immortal and man. His senses project to the atmosphere, and the world is in his vision. However, Mob as a person stands in the middle of a lonely street, perfectly physical against the spiritual. As the man between both, he sits still, solid in the understanding of personhood and waits for the other side to respond. Come, his sense of self says to the other, simple human to the beyond mortal. Tell me what is wrong, tell me what error my worldview has committed. 

And the world stays in potential energy against the kinetic, and with infinite wisdom, blurs the vision between the softness of Mob's reality and the layer that some are blessed to dwell. 

Confidence is his signal, and it is with great and inescapable mercy that he takes this heavenly, blurring plastic crinkling in front of his eyes, and savagely rips it from his line of sight.

And finally, he can see. Where he stands is now in the solid footing of reality, and his awareness is a definite instead of a probability. 

He looks, and finds that there is something black and floaty that roams around the place, like particles of dust moving with purpose. Those little ones are coalescing - en masse around a windowsill. 

Mob tastes rot. His reaction is to cringe away, to run from the sight so foreign, but confidence breeds courage, and he is a man fuelled by bravery. 

He squints at the black enmasse, at the parts that make whole, and reaches out. His psychic shadow settles on the entire house, dominion held in his very hands. 

He picks a thing out with a delicate finger. Lets it settle on his skin.

Mob is behemoth to its tiny form. It’s just made of three components: round face to wide eyes, pointy ears, and jagged tail. The smallest spirit Mob has ever seen. He thinks it looks like a cat. Like the freshwater shrimp that the toy stores sold, but in feline edition. 

He glances at Hanazawa, who dropped the stance he was taking to stare at Mob instead. He doesn’t recognize the emotion, but he does understand his intention. 

Mob shows him the cat on his finger. Hanazawa-kun looks even more confused, which pings to Mob as very odd - because he is always on top of the supernatural.

“Your finger?” he asks, seemingly confused as to Mob’s burst of energy.

“It’s a shrimp cat.” 

“Oh?” Hanazawa-kun is very intent on staring through Mob’s finger. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see it.”

Ah, that’s a shame. Mob lets it float away, and his finger points towards the en masse of shrimp-sized cats. “Can you see that?” Mob finds his sense of unease growing at every second that he remains staying near all the black. Hanazawa looks up to where he is pointing, and looks very confused. “It’s a window?” 

“No.” Mob says, staring intently at the clinging on the glass. “It’s this mass of black,” he tries to explain, “Made of a lot of little floating shrimp cats?” He’s not good at explaining the abstract, and the logical Hanazawa-kun fails to comprehend.

Maybe proximity will help him understand. With a sigh of passive energy, Mob grabs Hanazawa’s hand and pushes them both. Upwards, to the curtained windows, they float like the debris creatures microscopic, and only pausing as they get close to the colony. Hanazawa-kun puts a solid barrier around them, glowing yellow in psychic instinct. 

“Are we supposed to be doing this?” Hanazawa-kun picks his notes with the undertone of friendly concern. The winds sway ominously to the beat of their hearts, alone in the air except for the coagulation of dark and the window in front of them. 

“And are you _sure_ you can see anything, Kageyama-kun? I’m just worried, maybe you aren’t feeling too well.” Mob keeps silent at that, because it’s just there. Right beside Hanazawa-kun’s barrier, comfortable in their corner of home. “We had a lot of bad weather and people around town have been getting sick-” 

But just in case, Mob takes a brief moment to rub his eyes with a sleeve. Just in case, because maybe a fly with cat-shaped toes could have stepped on them? 

And then, in the moment, this planted kernel of doubt in the midst of bloom - is brutally snipped off of its stems, the glass shattering before them. Above them, in front of them, the large window is no longer whole but millions of pieces that could hurt-

The barrier is sturdy enough that the glass parapets bounce off them with no resistance. Resistance doesn’t matter anyway, because Mob holds the glass in the air to prevent their descent. What it cannot resist against, however, is a putrid ball that shatters Hanazawa-kun’s barrier and slams itself onto his shocked face. 

It’s absolutely ludicrous that it happened, but the creature is a cactus that is intent on _hurting_. Hanazawa howls in a convoluted pain when the thing, a giant ball with spiky legs and putrid smell, claws at his face with great prejudice. Defence kicks in that very moment, electric esper strength holding the creature aloft in the air. A palm tightens into a fist, and psychic energy reflects. 

The creature chokes as it is held midair. “What the fuck _is_ that thing?” Hanazawa-kun stares, face bleeding profusely and lungs wheezing in a jumpscare horror. “I don’t know,” Mob thinks quick and lowers them to the ground. His hands are busy, one reassembling the shattered window and the other holding spare cloth onto the wound to try stem the bleeding. 

Shishou had taught him some first aid. Unfortunately he’s never picked up on a lot of it. Mob knows about the really important stuff though, so he keeps pressure. It’s hard to keep control, because the concentration of the dust increases, swirling around them ominously. 

Running on half a mind and twice on adrenaline, Mob decidedly yanks the psychic hold from Hanazawa’s ineffective exorcism attempt. With a burst of strength, he pours out his own power onto the creature - slamming until it turns into a puff of smoke. Nothing remains of the thing’s existence except for the scars on Hanazawa’s face. The cloud of dust is no more too, mysteriously disappeared along the wake of their larger companion.

“Oh my God!” Screams a feminine voice, someone unknown in the distance, and Mob looks up to see a middle-aged lady staring in horror at the sight. 

“We’re alright!” Hanazawa says, which is not true. There is a lot of blood, because the creature cut into a lot of skin. It looks very bad to the bystander, and looks bad to Mob too.

Mob starts, scrambling for the words appropriate for this situation, and the very helpful samaritan, before the request is laid on Mob’s tongue, has her phone is already out and about, fingers dialing for a taxi. He is very grateful. Mob now focuses on keeping pressure on the wound the entire time. The entire time turns out to not be very long, because one turns the corner and ushers them in. 

“Thank you,” Mob says, as they awkwardly shuffle into the taxi. The driver sets them on a course to the nearest clinic, and tells them not to stain the seats. 

Hanazawa narrows his eyes into a glare point, and shifts his seat around, that Mob nearly falls over trying to keep up with him. He still winces in pain, but there is a steel of determination in his tone that Mob hasn’t heard in a long time. “Change of plans, Driver-san. We’ll be going to Spirits and Such instead.” 

“Eh?” the driver asks, his nose huffing in disbelief. “You sure? It’s your face, kid.” 

Mob is less uncaring than the driver, for one, and his arms are feeling a little tired. The handkerchief is getting really wet too, blood red against the monochrome white it once used to be. “We should go to the hospital first, Hanazawa-kun.” 

“It’s not very serious! _This_ is more important.” He gestures at his wounds, grandiose with a sprinkle of pain, and stops at the hands holding them together. “We need your Shishou’s _expertise_.” 

Uh. Hm. Mob’s mind tries to justify Hanazawa’s certainty. “Shishou knows first aid.” And Mob needs help keeping Hanazawa-kun from bleeding out. He learned about losing blood in school, and he knows about people dying after losing too much of it. “He can patch you up.” 

“Glad we’re in agreement, then.” The full body shudder catches Mob by his fingertips, and he winces back in sympathy.

“Let's just make it quick,” Mob mutters, eyes forward to the road and beyond, heading downtown to the workplace of his childhood.


	2. Convoluted Conspiracies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of a sterling day.

Two years are small to the thirty-one that he lived, but it is enough time for a man to turn his life around. Serizawa Katsuya is the captain at the helm of the ship, and the livelihood he leads has gone in a better direction ever since Reigen and his brand of middle schoolers crashed into his life. 

So he’s forever grateful. Katsuya does his best to repay them by being a very hard worker, rising from the position of a new employee to the highly regarded business partner he is today. The achievements are a certainty on his tongue, a concoction of bitter and sweet to the sour taste of the once-president Suzuki’s regard for him. It’s never too late to change for the better, Reigen had said to him on a once rainy day, when the downpour slammed justice to the ground and his own thunderclouds fogged his reality into memory. His shoulder has experienced two different comforts, and he knows which one of the two employers he prefers most. 

Reigen is a regular minefield of wisdom and sayings, and they come out in the most generic words or in the oddest of places. Katsuya has been the recipient of Reigen's brand of hallmark cards, stuffed in the metaphorical mailbox at the unexpected hour. One sterling reminder is Reigen’s favourite phrase: Dress for the job you want. So Katsuya is in a polyester suit and a tie beyond his pay grade, working as a salaryman in the semi-regarded psychic industry, and every look in the bathroom mirror reminds him of the life he is building up - block by block. 

Such is the joy derived from daily life in the office. The atmosphere is friendly and at times unprofessional but in most cases, that is for the better. Reigen is casual with his discussions and Dimple is a welcome third opinion in whatever gossip they tend to rant about. 

Slow days are the best for that reason, in Katsuya’s opinion. Today was shaping up to be just that too, Reigen relaxing halfway and sticking around the office out of obligation and spite, and Katsuya stayed to keep company and finish his homework. The amiability stood around them, embracing them in mutual lethargy. 

Then a client comes out of the blue and appears unannounced, ready for a quick exorcism. Reigen pulls out the usual charm, transforming right before Katsuya’s homework-addled eyes from a man bored by talk into the charmer that he advertises. Reigen pulls that confidence really well, and Shiratori-san is enamoured with the performance. Katsuya, however, ranks it a solid eight out of ten, because while the act is impressive, there is no fast hand gesture that can disguise the exhaustion pooled under his eyes. 

Luckily for Reigen, this case has a clear sign of spiritual disturbance. Katsuya peers for the chance to step in, gearing up to be the remedy of the first and last client of the day, when the door slams open with a burst of kinetic yellow - Kageyama Shigeo and Hanazawa Teruki on tow. 

This surprise entrance is followed by a silence in the office, the echo only broken when Reigen screeches (for the lack of a better or flattering word) and pushes both the client to Katsuya’s unprepared self into the massage room. 

The client shouts an incredulous “What?” at the door and when there is no response, turns a skeptical eye at him. It is super effective. The years of social anxiety hold him hostage, whispering devious nothings into his ear just as the Shiratori-san’s glare keeps him on his metaphorical toes.

Katsuya takes a breath, and shakes them all off his back, releasing fears back into the wild. With a nervous laugh, he raises his hand in poor approximation to Reigen’s signature technique. “I’m here to help?” he says, feeling the heady pressure of the client’s disapproval on him. “Please tell me what you need.” 

“You weren’t listening to what I was saying?” The client has a very high pitch, the kind that scars skin. It makes Katsuya’s ears hurt. “I am haunted by a ghost!” The client then gives the most pathetic look - the polar opposite of what he was a mere moment ago. “It keeps possessing me. I fall asleep in my bed, and five hours later, I’m in the kitchen!” Katsuya starts to feel genuine pity for this man. It’s very scary to wake up not knowing where you are, and he feels that to the pits of his soul.

“Of course,” he says, compassion and duty harmonizing into purpose. “Let me exorcise this ghost from you.” 

“Wait.” Shiratori-san snaps the positivity with a shrewd look. “How do I know you’re reliable? You just look like a grunt to me. I,” Emphasis on the I, “want Reigen-san to do the exorcism.” Ah, well. The walls in this room are surprisingly soundproofed, but that doesn’t fully block the absolute chaos from outside.

“I’m sorry, he’s busy.” How would Reigen-san do it? He knows how to, because he saw it a million times before, in the cyclical routine of their lives. “I’ve been trained very well by Reigen-san,” he says, spinning a tale of truth, “And you can trust me as the partner of this company.”

“Oi,” says the green blob that conveniently appears out of nowhere. “If you’re not gonna take care of that, I dibs it.” Dimple ruins the intensive His confidence buildup is ruined, as his eyes automatically turn to the presence in their midst. The client notices, of course, and before everything takes a turn for the worse, Katsuya slaps a gentle hand on the client’s back to exorcise the weird, gooey substance from his back. It’s gross to look at, and even Dimple makes a face at it. 

“Disgusting,” He says, and being the lactic acid bacterium that he is, Dimple deals a critical blow to the spirit’s self esteem. 

He has an irrational urge to giggle. Instead, he gives his best service smile. “Thank you for your patronage,” Katsuya says, ushering Shiratori-san to the exit. The client is gobsmacked at this entire scene before the three of them: the professional, and highly vaunted psychic of the 21st century playing nurse to the two troublemakers, and the other, perfectly nice employee that tries to get him to leave. Luckily for all parties involved, he takes the hint. 

Katsuya thinks he hears something about the ‘subpar service’ or something along those lines, but his mind is off into wild yonders away from the industry to the more immediate factor of teenage boy bleeding on the cheap flooring. 

Reigen sifts through his admittedly well-stacked first aid kit, which takes up half the space of his desk. “Hanazawa-kun, are you alright?” Katsuya asks, shutting the door behind him. That wound looks like it hurts. “We should get you to a hospital.” 

“Which is exactly what  _ I _ said, but  _ he _ doesn’t want to,” Reigen grumbles, grabbing a bottle of disinfectant and some gauze. He pours alcohol on the wound, as pus continues to leak out. Katsuya makes a face, and averts his eyes from that medical mess. 

“And I said I am absolutely fine, of course!” Hanazawa-kun says, and yelps when cotton makes contact. He is a very strong person for resisting the pain. He should, however, learn that it is okay to admit that it hurts.

Reigen does it for him instead. “Your flesh is  _ torn out _ and it’s already infected!” Reigen screws the lid shut with great prejudice and stomps back to his kit. 

“It really doesn’t feel that bad,” Hanazawa says with tears in his eyes, and Katsuya winces in mutual sympathy. He forces himself to turn to the other objective of why they are here. 

To Kageyama-senpai, he asks, “Who did this to him?” 

Kageyama pats his friend’s back in this trying time. “A spirit.” 

“Okay,” Katsuya replies, finally gearing up the confidence to look over Hanazawa’s scar. “What  _ kind _ of spirit?” He’s never heard of ghosts that can leave a lasting mark on people. Not in the two years he’s worked with Reigen nor in his time before. 

“You smell dead, blondie,” Dimple comments from where he is hovering. “Did you guys crash into a funeral house before you came here?”

“Maybe spirits just smell like they’re rotting?” Reigen butts into the conversation, voice amplified from the closet. A sudden yelp is followed by the sound of boxes falling over, and only Katsuya’s psychic intervention keeps them from spilling over. 

Reigen continues his train of thought, uncaring of the near-death by now-airborne objects. “Or maybe  _ they're _ rotting. Because  _ they’re _ dead.” 

“Like  _ you _ can even smell anything spiritual, stupid.” Dimple sneers, and levitates into Reigen’s vicinity. “What the hell are you doing back there?”

Hanazawa-kun flops on the couch in a fit display of teenage immaturity, ignoring Reigen’s angry shouts of  _ don’t ruin his hard work dammit _ . “We  _ don’t know what _ it is, and that's why we came here in the first place. You would know, because spirits are your  _ job _ .” He is a master of emphasis, sounding petulant as he admits, “And I couldn’t exorcise it. Only Kageyama-kun could.” 

“How so?” he asks. Between the two of them in this industry, they exorcised plenty of spirits. As a professional, this topic interests Katsuya very much, and he leans in, interested. 

“It was solid,” Kageyama-senpai begins, hands unconsciously moving to shape a sphere between the two of them, “and spiky. It felt heavy, so I thought it was an animal at first.” 

Kageyama-senpai fumbles, mulling over his next choice of words, “Squeezing until it was, weightless. Then it became smoky.” 

A massive cloud of dust explodes from behind, and a soot-covered Reigen comes out, grey to the bone and coughing his heart out. Katsuya feels his eyes water too - and quick thinking is what saves them from a dust mottled death. The windows open with his force, convenient winds swishing all of them far away from the room. 

“Found it!” Reigen shouts in triumphant glee, holding out a grey industrial bottle. Reigen uncorks it and pours what he has on a clean cotton pad, and only when he moves on to dressing Hanazawa’s wound can Katsuya read what it says: HOLY WATER printed in both English and Kanji. 

Dimple floats through the pandemonium and hovers on Kageyama’s face, his face pursed in annoyance. Reigen doesn’t bother dealing and instead nods his head in satisfaction when he finishes cleaning the wound with his new miracle cure. Amazingly, the wound seems to heal, and the pus stops leaking. Hanazawa’s face no longer looks like a mass of inflamed red, which is a better result than the clearly waylaid mess of medicinal tubes that tried very hard and failed. 

Reigen catches his eye to answer the unasked. “It’s really potent medicine I got from someone I know.” Katsuya hums in acknowledgment. The myriad of Reigen’s connections are an awe to witness. 

“Anyway,” Reigen begins, starting to put his kit away, “I’d say you guys are better off just avoiding them. Don’t try chasing after these spirits.” 

He emphasizes his point with a very stressed finger at Hanazawa’s face. “And you, get to a clinic. I can’t do anything better than that.” 

Hanazawa looks like he’s about to protest, with his face lined in stubbornness, but Reigen finalizes it then, “I’ll even ask around, especially that spirit tamer guy whatshisname? About heavy solid spirits. You guys just need to focus on school. High school is very important, especially if you both want to go to university.” 

The clock ticks on the wall, and the sunset is reflected into the office. “We’ll even call you if something comes up. Deal?” 

“But-” Hanazawa finally begins, not yet browbeaten by Reigen’s spiel. He is only quelled when Kageyama-senpai nods his head. “Thank you, Shishou.” He stands up from the stiff couch and tugs Hanazawa up to his feet. 

“Good. Make sure he goes to the doctor, Mob. Should I call a cab?” Reigen asks, holding a flip phone that seems to have appeared on him after a series of impossibly fast gestures. 

“I think you took care of most of it. We can walk there.” Kageyama waves goodbye. “Thank you. I’ll see you on the weekend.” 

“Right. Seeya!” The door shuts behind them with a chord of finality. 

There is a silence for a moment, only broken by Reigen, peering at him with a raised eyebrow. “Don’t you have night classes, Serizawa?” 

Ah, right. Katsuya feels the blood rush out of his head. “I do!” he screeches, hitting high octaves. Time passes by too fast, and they’ve already gone beyond what should have been closing time. 

“Go ahead, I’ll shut the office for today.” Reigen waves his hand, sauntering back to his desk. “We’re not getting more customers today, that’s for sure.” He pauses for a moment and turns to face Katsuya. 

“Ah! Where’s the money from the last client, Serizawa-san?” Reigen stares at Katsuya with a level of suspect intensity. Katsuya freezes at that accusing glare, and pedals back to that exchange... 

“Well,” his traitorous mouth utters. “I don’t think he paid us.” 

Reigen shakes his head. “That’s a rookie mistake on your part, though,” He shakes his head and makes a shooing motion. “don’t worry about it. You’ll have to be quick though,” His thumb juts out to the wall clock, “because you’re late.” 

This is no longer a calming day indeed. “Goodbye, Reigen-san! See you tomorrow!” he hollers over his shoulder, already carrying his bag and running down the stairs. He doesn’t hear a response, but it doesn’t matter - Serizawa Katsuya is already racing to the bus stop, mentally reviewing what he knows about today’s lesson plan. 

* * *

When Shou was a kid, psychic powers meant a starring role in a fate for himself, or as the protagonist of a superhero story. Now, hitting fifteen and post-Claw, he is no longer a kid and has thoroughly dissuaded that notion into the childhood relic where it remains. Shou lives in reality now, in the world where his father is defeated by some rando middle schooler, and he had barely jack shit involved except being beaten to a pulp. 

So yeah, that fucking did the whole delusion thing in. Point is, even with reality in his case, Shou is still the closest thing to a Jedi in this place. So it is with much gusto (and a little sprinkling of dread) that he proclaims that there is a disturbance in the force. Or whatever psychic awareness of this place is supposed to be named. Pop culture references are only cool when people are near to hear about it so Shou drops the whole thing pretty quick. 

Maybe Ritsu would get it, but that’s something he wouldn’t go for right now. He ran out of Ritsu’s home in such a quick that explaining himself the next time they meet would be fucking painful. It sucks that his good deed of the day: to cheer up the sick and studyholic friend gone haywire because he can’t control his neuroses. Shou’s mind has reverted back to its militaristic headspace, and his train of thought takes the shortcut pitstop back into the hell that are his current projects. 

And it’s all thanks to the guy and his greedy ambitions. Ritsu’s going places, sure, but he’ll be dragging everyone by their throat while chasing his goalposts. Shou was initially interested in him exactly because of that assassin personality he’s got, and just as the saying goes, you reap what you sow.

The fruit of his labor lies in True Cross. Of all places, Ritsu surely picked one that is garbage - a place with more bad rumors than bad guys existed in history. It’s also a name that’s been cropping up more and more in the psychic circles and not in the good fucking way. What spooks the peeps is that there’s just not a lot of information on them, especially on the ‘net. Clearly hinting that the infuriating, glossy school website that is hiding some deep shit. 

What a complex tomfuckery this is. He unfolds the pamphlet from his grip and looks over its glossy if crumpled surface, where evening is caught on the sheen, reflecting nature in parallel against perfect squares of manmade craft. In the dawn of evening, Shou feels the setting sun in the shadows cast by his back. He shoulders shame and carry the heavy head filled with machinations in tides too young to control. With a deep breath, he grabs the tendrils of light, coating himself in the mirage of absence. 

He’s not visible to any normal or abnormal person, not that anyone would bother looking up. In the cascade of instinct and thought, he’s ended up on top of a telephone pole high enough and remote enough to avoid wandering eyes. Shou is as alone as can be in this quiet breeze of evening, and that’s what it takes for him to gather his wits and unfold the paper to read. 

And the contents are the usual - a school for the rich stuck up brats, with more money than they can wipe their asses with. But read between the lines and you find that they’re also for the ones with  _ talent _ . It doesn’t exactly say what it is but if it doesn’t begin with esper and end with psychics, he’ll eat his limited edition Genos shoes. Rest of the details are probably on the website. Shou can probably find a person to hack parts for him, but it’s not the best idea - he’s already on high heat with the cops ‘cause of his pops. 

These are the moments when he regrets disbanding his old team. With the help of his network, the whole thing would be a lot easier, and his paranoia would be justified. 

Why wouldn’t he? In fact, maybe he  _ should _ have just kept them hanging around. Cause it’s true that all this shit keeps coming back to him. These conspiracies seem to fester and boil over whenever he is nearby and it explodes in his face, with him to deal with consequences that stick. 

But then, he knows the dangers too well because that’s what happened with Pops and his Claw. He saw the consequences, the mistakes this past generation made, and one he dares not repeat.

So the minute Pops is in custody, poof goes his A-team. The objective complete, purpose fulfilled, let’s throw a damn party! Everyone is on their own now, and that includes Shou Suzuki. 

Back to normalcy. It’s a contrast. 

Like the ground against the sky, two impossible things clashing against each other and trying to coexist at the same time. And he’s still here, where it almost feels like he’s untouchable. Right this moment is where Shou stands beyond man, looking down on the evening’s rush hour, on these tiny people that could - almost - fit into his palm. This is something that he could get addicted to, and he knows that this  _ is _ what Pops was addicted to. Until Ritsu’s brother dragged him back to Earth, with the rest of the common folk. 

Shou wonders what his father is up to now. Maybe he’ll find out in the next moderated visit. 

Back to reality and in the distance, he feels a psychic presence. Down below is a ghost of familiarity, and its name is Serizawa Katsuya, chasing a bus with his own two legs - no more, no less. Further away, the wellspring of power walks with an agile esper, and beyond is the psychic beacon that is the Kageyama household. In this mundane world of Seasoning City, the coming night is sure as clockwork, darkness surrounding as street lights turn on the light the weary travelers home. 

The paper is useless in his hand, and Shou wonders, vividly, of what is in his future. It’s been two years since his father’s shadow crumpled before his eyes and it’s tiring that he hasn’t moved on. That he is still finding demons in every hidden corner and every dark hour he’s going back over to that moment where his father loomed over him in all aspects of life - ever so big, and ever so powerful. 

“Interested?” 

Shou jumps at the sound, feet headed sky high, and his surprise nearly topples him off his mighty perch. There is a man on a roof, staring up at Shou with the despised adult expression of condensation. The thing that stands out as absurd to him is the bubblegum pink hair and that odd staff he carries - he looks like he belongs in a shady club or a Buddhist temple. The simultaneous contrast throws Shou in for a loop - wherein the mind assesses that the man with such peculiar tastes doesn’t have any reason to be looking at Shou like that with such an awful, smug look on his face. 

“What the fuck,” he blurts out in a knee jerk reaction. Only a few beats later does Shou realise that he gave his position away, and that he is no longer invisible, because the guy is clearly staring at him. No way can the guy see him without powers, yeah? Holy shit, clearly an esper of some sort. Okay. Right. So he drops it, or he dropped it a long time ago, and there’s no way to tell. There’s no point debating about it now, however, because his hand is now beige against the sundown, so there it stands: the proof that Suzuki Shou still exists.

Shou’s instincts urge him to assess the terrain. So he does, and it repeats back what he already knows; that it’s a deserted street, clearly, and he has the higher ground. He stands on an unstable foothold, however, and so with a boost of psychic power, he lands on a lower but more stable platform - opposite of where mystery man stands. Pink Guy is still smiling like the cat’s got the cream, and it infuriates Shou  _ so fucking much _ . 

“Are you stalking me?” He says, these words blurting into the air with minimal consideration, because interruptions mid-internal monologue does not make good accusations. “That’s so fucking creepy.” 

Pink guy looks kinda taken aback by that. Why? It’s fucking clear what he’s doing. But he flounders anyway, and that awful expression is replaced by panic. 

Good. “What? Hel-heck no!” He smirks, and leans on his long-ass stick. “Sorry kid, you’re ten years too young for me.” 

Yeah right. Shady guy talking to someone minding his own business? Screams fucking creepazoid to him. He’s just going to disappear, and that’ll be all there is for the day. Ta da, so Shou keeps an eye on the guy, but all it takes is a split second of concentration away, when pink guy’s finger is suddenly too close, and pointing at Ritsu’s brochure. And only then does Shou notice that he’s still holding it. When did he get over here, a distant part of his mind screeches into the ear, and how the hell did he do it without grabbing Shou’s attention? 

“You’re on a fucking  _ roof _ , crazy old man. What, you haven't got back pains yet?” He crumples the brochure in his death grip and shoves it into a pocket. No touch.

“I’ll have you know that I have a degree in roof climbing!” He chortles, and Shou doesn’t because it wasn’t funny. What a fucking boomer. Shou can’t believe that someone can mess up adulthood in three simple steps. “That sucked.” Mr.-That-Rod-is-Definitely-An-Allegory-For-Something-Not-Good just shrugs. He’s already too close from what’s considered a safe distance, so Shou takes that chance to find true, solid ground. 

“Just go away!” The guy is clearly not psychic, maybe Shou can overpower him? He’s clearly in the advantage because he can take care of himself. There are already a ton of solutions he could enact to make the guy go away. The easiest being that he has to do is make the guy float up, and fuck off. He raises his hand to do exactly that and remembers that Pink guy might charge him with assault, and he has better things to do than frenzy the police that are already on high alert with him. 

Not to say that plan isn’t scrapped. It’s just there in the background, brewing and boiling over. 

“I’m looking for a Suzuki Shou! Got an opportunity I think he’d be interested in!” Pink guy shouts after him, and yeah nooooooooo how the fuck does he know his name. Is the guy looking for him? Does he have targets behind his back because of his damn Pops?

Shou is not going to bother with a reply, and he is gonna book it. That one time infomercial Ritsu’s brother pawned off to him said something along the lines of not confronting clearly deranged people? Right, that’s the procedure he’s going with then. By the fuckin’ books.

With a burst of kinetic energy, he dashes from the road and into an alleyway. An additional weave of light particles shroud him, and interested eyes slide off his smooth disguise. It takes barely a whiff of breath between them because say all you want about Shou, but his best is when he’s getting the hell away. 

He’ll chalk rooftop guy as a crazy encounter. Like when people meet axe-murderers in real life? Sometimes in gas stations, where they say hey, Joe, how’re the kids? in that creepy, but neighborly way, you know? And later you find out in the news that the guy who asked about your family last week killed thirty-seven people. Had a taste for human flesh too. That sort of thing happens in daily life, right? 

Yeah, probably not. First hope is that he’s not Pink Guy’s target, but one benefit of being psychic is fantastic self-defence. It looks like the guy went away, anyway. With a silent sigh, he relaxes by the sewer-tinged wall, and in there, and everywhere else, there is nothing to indicate that Shou exists.

Then the impossible happens.

A tap on his shoulder. A cold metal, pressing onto the small of his back, innocuous in everything but piercing intent. The chill smears into his soul and shivers trickle down his spine. 

Because he knows this time, he is invisible to naked eye.

His greatest technique is transparent to a stranger. In a snap of a finger, just like that. Shou feels his breath hitching up, upwards and floating into the air, and in the atmosphere finds no solace. He turns around, clothes brushing against a hand like whirlwind and stares into the grinning eyes of the Pink Man. 

Under that gaze, he feels small. A microscopic toy to the bigger boy, playing rough with his possessions and stripping him down to base and disassembled to working joints. He felt that once before, in the tundra that was his father’s dominion, but this one is different; this time’s different because it is this  _ stranger _ that is the eye of the storm. 

The man slouches unassumingly despite being anything but. He casually pulls out a pen, takes the brochure from Shou’s shellshocked pocket. He scribbles something onto it and simply slots it back in. “Call me if you have any questions, kay, Shou-kun?” 

Then he walks away. Just like the rest of the population, in the instance where he is just one amongst many. En masse, the crowd is, right before his eyes, and they are equal on the ground they both walk on. But in this, they are taller than him, and the only thing that fits into the creases of his palm is the cold sweat that trickles down his back.

Shou knows, logically, that he should follow the man, hold him down and demand answers, but his legs give out. All he can do is watch the streak of pink disappear into the rush of the evening crowd.

Night has come now, the sun has gone from whence it had blanketed the sky with suffocating promise. Shou breathes in the cool evening air, legs haphazard on this abandoned road. It takes a while, but he finds the minuscule strength to stand. 

He unfolds the pamphlet from his pocket and takes a vicious look at this smug ink on egotistical paper. 

_ Call me: 011-XXX-XXXX, Ask for Mephisto Pheles! _

* * *

One of the many redeeming qualities of Kageyama, Teru finds, is that he is very good at following directions. This applies best when said instructions are from his Shishou, so when both of them are kicked out of Spirits and Such, it is straight to the nearest clinic with no diversions necessary. 

The clinic is not very far from the office, but Kageyama’s one-track mind and faster pace get them to one in record time. 

After that, it’s not his friend that keeps Teru’s mind occupied. It’s the rush of doctors that take charge, the nurse on duty manhandling him into the emergency room.

They all ask for explanations. Teru says this is way too much attention for a cut, surely, and the questions they ask aren’t even near adjacent to his injury. They start from the generic ‘where did you get that, how did you get hurt’ sort of questions, but they devolve into something else, into ‘have you experienced hallucinations’ and ‘is there anything weird you would like to tell us?’. 

When it veers into the territory of the weird, he clams up. There is nothing else that they can pry out of him with the guise of medical professionals, and his impersonal smile is worth even less so to the next, more official-looking personnel. 

Teru admits that his coldness is not their fault. The timing and their brashness was just awful to him, and rubbed him the wrong way. Any other day, Teru would be very amicable, but the entire day is just lead weighing down on his shoulders. 

He wants a break. Away from people, away from population. Chuck the phone into a corner of his room and go to sleep early. It’s worse because they don’t tell him anything either, but from the looks everyone is exchanging, a lot of his personal information is being juggled around for everyone to enjoy. 

Another one of Kageyama’s many qualities is that he seems, despite the clearly tense atmosphere, to be completely unaffected by the fuss being kicked up. Teru decides to borrow that steel wall of apathy for himself as well and puts it between medical and his sphere of influence. 

“Do we have any homework?” Teru asks. He is maybe a smidgen too desperate-sounding, cowed by the stern-looking nurse that is purpled by his rude demeanour. She is preparing a malicious looking paste to slap onto his delicate skin.

“I don’t think so,” Kageyama replies, his nose wrinkled at the sheer smell of that ungodly medicine. “We only read the syllabus for class.” Teruki nods along and winces when the nurse slaps the bandages on his cheek. He misses Reigen-shishou’s merciful version of first aid. 

“Done. Don’t get into fights,” she says, and her terse words are soon followed into a flurry of aftermaths, which end in him and Kageyama heading to the front door. 

The sun is already set when they exit. Night has settled in, blanketing the world with a sense of tranquility. These blinking lights are artificial, against the canvas of natural black. Teru and Kageyama are abnormalities in the waters they wade into, observed by the cautious eye in the sky. 

They walk. Silent, with the bonds of friendship hanging between them. Tension weighs as tightrope between the two of them, with words unspoken hanging in the balance. Or maybe it’s only Teru who feels that way. Teru, who likes the night and the finality it brings. Teru, whose day was saved by the hero that is Kageyama-kun. 

Kageyama Shigeo, who is the man of miracles. He repeats this brilliance in mundanity, lighting up the stars in the backdrop of Teruki’s light. 

Teruki would like to return the favor, would like to touch the brilliance that encompasses Kageyama whole. So he breaks the word, tears the silence between them in the grand, concluding gesture of this very exciting day.

“Thank you.” This is how he begins. Teruki begins with performance, spine ramrod straight and at attention. “You didn’t need to do this for me.” 

“It’s all right,” Kageyama-kun murmurs, and his voice is soft to the echoes of his own. “You’re my friend.” 

“What are friends for?” Right? Right. Teruki offers a small smile to him, and he hopes that it looks genuine. It  _ is _ genuine because, around Kageyama, Teruki can proudly say he is himself. 

The words that come after are harder to coax out, and fear nearly lodges it in his throat. It is the expectation that Kageyama holds that Teruki finally manages to choke them out. 

“I. Yo-you are my friend, Kageyama. My best friend,” he finishes lamely and cringes at how much he’s stuttered for a single sentence. “You can call me Teruki if you want. Or Teru.  _ If _ you want, of course. We can just pretend this never happ-” 

“Okay.” Okay about what, Kageyama-kun? Teru’s anxiety spikes up into climax, and he braces, expecting expectation to nauseating fall. 

“You can call me Mob. Or Shigeo,” Teru stares at him, the man who smiles like the sun. He stares, he keeps staring, half expecting and half waiting to go blind. 

Then his dumb mouth opens up, and ruins the moment. “Okay Mob! I-I mean, that’s not right, I’m sorry, Shigeo-kun.” Brilliant. His face heats up, and Teru berates his stupid self for turning so red to clash with the yellow.

“You shouldn’t be sorry. I gave you permission,” Shigeo-kun says. He pats his shoulder, bright and friendly. Genuine. 

“Oh,” Teruki says. He has no better words for him. His polite supply has run out, and the curtains have shut, useless to the man who can see through cloth. 

Shigeo-kun has a very beautiful smile, Teru notes absently. “Goodnight, Teruki-kun.” As they stop in front of his apartment, a solid figure in the night, Teruki whispers to the retreating back of his shining friend, unheard by any except the beholder: 

“Goodnight, Shigeo.”

* * *

Mob comes from the great big world and into the solace of domesticity. His home is a beacon of comfort, the standard of his life, and it is only when Mob crosses the threshold that he begins to feel the exhaustion. 

"Tadaima," he says to the hallway and takes his shoes off. He aligns his pair with the others, all of them well worn and loved. 

"Shige! Welcome back." In a stark contrast to the entrance, the living room is glaring bright. Mob squints his eyes, as they try to adjust.

His father is the voice that greets, gruffness in friendly undertones. 

“Shigeo, you’re late!” His mother berates him. The aroma of well-made dinner permeates the air, and his feet beeline to the kitchen. Mob watches as his mother works her magic - chopping the vegetables with the quick hand of experience on her side.

He can smell curry. It makes his stomach rumble. 

Mom doesn't seem to be disturbed by his observation. She multitasks with great proficiency, dealing with the quick-cooking meat and scolding Mob at the same time. “You shouldn’t stay out too long. We can’t have you catch a cold like Ritsu!” 

“Shige’s a high schooler now, he can take care of himself!” his dad rebutts with usual humor and smirks at Mob. “It’s just a few more years before you’re free from your mother, kid!” 

“Shut up, dear. Now help me set up the table. Clean up, Shigeo. Dinner is in five.” And with a good-natured grumble, Dad sits up from his comfort and slumbers into the kitchen. 

“Okay,” Mob says, and he climbs the stairs up to the second floor. 

Mob goes to his room first, and drops the heavy bag on his desk. 

The windows were left open, so the night winds saturate his room. It’s a breeze that reminds him of the eventful day, and a trace of cold that joins the convergence. 

It’s chilly. Mob shuts the glass and turns on the heating. Then, he backtracks out and keeps the door shut. Lets the room grow into its warmth, and lets his feet carry him to Ritsu’s room.

It's just down the hallway, so all it takes is a few steps before he arrives in front of the door. 

He knocks. There is no reply. So, Mob turns the doorknob and peers into the crack. 

“Ritsu?” he whispers to the dark. "Are you here?" There is no reply. Mob cracks the door wide open and exposes the room to the wider world.

In the shrouded night of Ritsu’s room, there is a single light that keeps the darkness at bay. It’s a desk light that shines steady, hovering above Ritsu’s spotlighted hair. 

Mob walks over to him, feet gentle as to avoid disturbance. A glance of a palm passes to the plastic bulb, and the touch of the light burns his skin. He turns the stand off, and gives the bulb a much-needed respite. It’s a very hard worker, but even the best need a rest.

Mob lays a hand over Ritsu’s forehead, wiping off a thin sheen of sweat. He doesn’t feel much warmer than Mob feels, and that’s a good thing. It means that the fever broke. 

Ritsu looks like he still needs sleep, so Mob straightens up the haphazard futon and very gently unfurls his energy. Ritsu is lifted from the trappings of that uncomfortable chair and floated his brother down to the soft futon, where a brotherly hand tucks him to sleep. 

Even on sick days, Ritsu is striving to better himself. It is a testament to his immense strength and it leaves Mob in awe every single time. 

As a big brother, he is proud of Ritsu. Also as a big brother, he wishes that Ritsu would better take care of himself. 

But that won’t happen yet, because his brother is an ambitious person. So what Mob can do is be here for him, always ready when his little brother comes back home. 

This feeling holds over the two of them, a silent promise to both himself and Ritsu. It feels final, it feels solid in his mind, and stands still as a rock that they both lean on. 

After the single, infinitesimal moment shared, Mob quietly walks out of the evening room, leaving a loving, familial silence behind him. 


End file.
